Confessions of a Mic Stand
by Sanded Silk
Summary: She felt nothing towards her singer until right smack in the middle of one particular concert. Discontinued
1. Chapter 1

...No, I do not think that mic stands really have genders, and no, I don't think they're even alive at all. But this insane, pitiful idea came to me when I was watching Michael Jackson stroke his mic stand while singing live.

If you wanna know the vid, it's called _Michael Jackson - Dirty Diana_, and it's on youtube, posted by the user michaeljackson. The mic-stand-stroking part is around 01:35 of the vid. And please don't get mad at me because I'm using something like this for inspiration. D:

I was seriously considering just deleting this whole file, but decided that there might be people who actually find this amusing rather than just plain stupid.

_Please,_ go easy on the flames :'0

**Disclaimer: I guess for once, I own everything in this story. I give credit for inspiration to what I mentioned above, though (it feels kinda weird, not admitting that what I write belongs in some way to someone else o.o)**

--Sanded Silk--

* * *

It didn't start when he picked her out of the millions of different microphone stands being displayed around her. It didn't start when he carefully lifted her out of the box and set her on the ground, making sure she stood sturdily before stepping back to admire the way she glinted smoothly in the dim stage lights. It didn't start when he used her in his first ever concert, or his second, or his third.

It started during one particular concert, somewhere at the peak of his popularity in pop culture. The only light in the whole room was a blue one, shining down from above his head. He was wearing a completely unbuttoned dress shirt, and heavy black leather pants belted far too loosely, with thick silver buckles connecting the leather straps wrapped loosely around his thighs. His ample dark curls shined under the wash of blue light. An intense part of the song finished, and he had just stepped away from her to do one of his signature dizzying spins, before he turned back to her. He stopped, letting the bass and the guitar play their suddenly-quiet solo, and walked slowly up to her.

Suddenly, instead of grimacing inwardly at the crowd's crazed cheering and at his embarrassingly suggestive lyrics, she caught herself trying to catch glimpses of his bare chest, caramel-brown and lean, and found herself staring hungrily at his barely-visible hips, trim and flexible, as he walked almost suggestively up to her. She noticed the way the blue light curved and spilled over the perfect dents and bumps of his slender stomach. A jolt of fear and confusion shot through her, and she forced herself to turn away her gaze.

His hot, hot hand grabbed her suddenly, right under the microphone, and if she were able to move, she would have jumped. He brought the lower half of his body uncomfortably close to her. His thigh brushed her, then his knee. He shifted his weight smoothly from leg to leg as he stepped closer, his eyes half-closed, his body coming nearer and nearer. The hand that wasn't clamped around her lowered slowly, then pressed into her, his fingers in line with the middle of his thigh.

Then, to her utter shock, he slid his hand slowly up her silver length, pressing the vulnerable area between his legs alarmingly close to her. First the silver buckling of his belt was pushed slowly against her, then the black leather of his pants. His hand kept going up. He breathed a slow, pant-like breath into the microphone, squeezing another round of intoxicated screaming from his audience.

He began to sing again, but made no move to detach the microphone from her and go sauntering around the stage, as he usually did. He rocked his hips to the beat, and she wished like hell that she could jump out of his grasp. But at the same time, she didn't want him to step away from her, to release her. She felt his sweat-coated chest slide against her, felt his hand slide up and down more rapidly, and inwardly shuddered--half from nervousness, half from pleasure.

Finally--suddenly--he let go of her completely. He detached the microphone and strode across the stage, pointing out at his audience as he sang with his usual attitude-filled voice.

She sighed in relief. The heat of the stage was hundreds of times more sufferable than the heat of her singer's hands. As he danced fluidly to the music, singing into the microphone breathlessly, she ripped her gaze from him and forced herself to focus on the unnaturally bouncy hair of one of the girls in the crowd. Her mind raced hopelessly, and in no time, she wasn't seeing the bouncy hair at all. The feel of his hands clamped around her and his chest sliding against her--it all crashed through her repeatedly in overwhelming waves. She stood there rigidly, like the mic stand she was, and endured the images and sensations flying through her mind for the remainder of the concert.

-o-o-

After the concert, the stage lights were turned on, but as low as possible, to avoid blinding the stage crew and the performers. She still stood where her singer had left her--right smack in the middle-front of the stage, facing the now-empty seats that previously seated half a million butts. The lights and the absence of a crowd relaxed her--and tonight, the absence of her singer relaxed her especially. A stage worker suddenly picked her up and began to walk offstage. Suddenly, a commotion rose to his right. A curtain had fallen. He set her down hurriedly so that she was facing the backstage door, and hurried off to help with the curtain.

As she watched them struggle with the heavy curtain, she heard the backstage door open and close, and heard an all-too-familiar voice. Though every inch of her being was screaming at her not to, she turned her gaze and saw her singer walk through with his stringy lead electric guitarist, deep in conversation. To her anxiety, they began to walk towards her, unaware of the fallen curtain. The guitarist, his bony cheekbones working, was chiding the singer for overworking.

"...and next week's concert will keep you busy enough. You should really get some rest, James."

Her singer--James--rolled his eyes. "Allan, I _know_. But there are calls I need to make; I need to talk with the manager, and with the idiot who owns the concert hall where next week's concert is. He better make sure the floor's clean this time, or God help him..."

The mic stand smiled to herself. Next week's concert hall--ah, she remembered that place well. While dancing, James had nearly broken his back and ankle when he slipped on a stray piece of plastic wrapping. The veins in his throat were dark against his skin when he roared his displeasure at the hall's owner, who was old and refused to take any responsibility.

Allan sighed. "Well, get to your hotel room and make those calls. Don't stand around here looking half-dead. Makes us feel even more tired than we already do."

"Well, _sorry_," James drawled sarcastically, and followed the fake apology with a long, luxurious sigh. "If all of you insist, I'll head out right now. But first let me pack up."

"No," Allan said firmly. "I'll make sure the stage crew takes care of that. You get to your hotel room. _Now_."

"Yes, mother." James turned around to leave, then caught sight of his mic stand and stopped cold.

"Argh, now what-?" Allan followed James' gaze, and both stood there staring at the mic stand for a moment.

"You know, your rivals are going to be all over your little incident with your mic stand," Allan reprimanded, forgetting his resolve to make James get some rest. "Critics are gonna be all over this too. What were you thinking, grinding and sliding on that poor piece of metal like that?"

"I don't know what came over me," James said, rubbing his hand through his head of thick curls, slightly embarrassed. "I got really into the song, I guess."

"For the love of your reputation, try to refrain from doing something like that onstage again. There were 10-year-old girls in the crowd--think on that next time you perform. Jeezus, the singer I'm working under is developing a fetish for _mic stands_..." Mumbling to himself, Allan walked away, shaking his head.

"Ehehe," James laughed embarrassingly to himself, then gave the mic stand another hard stare. She stiffened, and focused intensely on the stage workers as they continued to struggle with the curtain.

Finally, he turned his stormy-blue eyes away from her and, yawning, headed for the backstage door. "Erk. Good luck with the curtain, guys," He said through the enormous yawn to the crew members as he passed them, and they grunted their thanks without looking up.

* * *

**A/N:** Soo, please tell me how I did. Can't really comment on anything right now, except for the fact that I may have offended some MJ fans by seeming to mock him after his death. If you think so, I'm really sorry; I just needed somewhere to dump this idea on for a bit. I might not even continue this story, so please don't get too mad at me... D:

Umm, yeah. R&R please!

--Sanded Silk--


	2. Chapter 2

Uhh, second chapter... (feels meek)

Oh, and I forgot to mention something in the first chapter: I'm setting this story in the time when singers were booed off of their stages when they either wore too little or danced too wickedly. :/

**Disclaimer: I own everything! YAY!!!**

--Sanded Silk--

* * *

She was glad to get a whole day of solitude right after the drastically memorable night. They were traveling to the city where their next concert would be. For the whole day, she was packed in her velvet-lined box, and was either on an airplane, on a car, or in some stage equipment pile.

When night finally crawled over their heads with its velvety black fingers, she was carried into the concert hall--the floors were clean, thank God--and was taken out of her case. For a few minutes, she stood on the stage somewhere behind one of the thick black curtains. Then, she was hauled out into the center of the stage and plunked into place. She stood facing the empty chairs, then shifted her gaze to watch reverently as the stage crew scrubbed laboriously--and in vain--at the hardwood flooring.

James walked in abruptly and sat down in a random chair on the stage, reading a newspaper. "Yo, Allan," He called as his guitarist walked by, and waved his hand for Allan to go to where he was. Allan returned his greeting, paused to check for dark half-moons under his friend's eyes, and walked over to look at what Allan was thrusting into his face. Allan took one look at the headline, and his expression deflated.

"How did I know this was coming?" Allan sighed, and pulled up a chair to fold his skin and bones into, sitting with his back facing the mic stand. He took the newspaper into his hands, holding it up to his face to read the passage in more detail. The mic stand caught a glimpse of the headline. It read something to this effect: "JAMES AARESON GRINDS WITH MIC STAND: RIVALS SCANDALIZED".

She deflated too--though not physically, because she was, after all, a rigid mic stand--and looked up to see more of Allan's sharp shoulder blades making bumps in his thin t-shirt than she wanted as he handed the newspaper back to James and sighed, bending forward to rest his elbows on his knees and bury his face into his hands.

"I saw this coming," Allan muttered into his hands. James nodded absently. He held the newspaper in his hand for a moment, then looked up sharply to stare at the mic stand.

She started--did he see?--and looked away just as sharply. She didn't dare shift in her base to face the empty hall, in case he somehow saw the movement, and was forced to endure his intense stare as she meticulously counted boards in the floor.

Finally, he spoke, but without breaking his stare at her. "You know," He said to Allan slowly, "I swear that when I was...well, when I was touching the mic stand, it...sort of...shivered."

Allan rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Honestly, could this day get any worse? "Mic stands don't _shiver_, James. I think that even someone like you, who hasn't gone to more than four years of school in your entire life, would know so much."

"Yes, I do know for a fact that mic stands do not move." James sighed, frustrated, and his gaze broke from the mic stand--to her immense relief--to settle on Allan. "But on that stage, when I was performing, when I had that mic stand...uh, up against me...it moved. I swear it made some sort of shiver."

"It was the intensity of the performance," Allan said with conviction. "You were getting caught up in the excitement of the crowd--their cheering was getting to you--of course your senses would be blown off a bit."

"...I guess." James looked frowned, unconvinced, and his gaze returned to the mic stand, staring at her quizzically but steadily.

After a pregnant pause, a shuffling stage worker sidled up to Allan, all nerves and stutters. "Um, s-sir. Y-Y-Your guitar...it m-might have b-broken on the trip h-h-here--"

Allan leapt to his feet, and the chair behind him did a neat flip onto its back, a hairline crack appearing in the wooden backing. "WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME EARLIER??" He roared, the veins popping out in a terrifying--but aesthetically beautiful--pattern on his neck. He shoved everyone in his way into the nearest wall as he stormed, cursing, off the stage to the storage area. The stuttery stage worker scurried after him at a safe distance, apologizing to the victims of being aimed at a wall as he passed through the throng of slightly ruffled stage workers and musicians.

James didn't look away from the mic stand for one second as Allan caused the minor brouhaha. He didn't even twitch a muscle.

Which was why he jumped three feet into the air when Lucera Stone, the creepy keyboardist with a halo of curly bright red hair tied down with a black cloth headband, materialized behind him and whispered "boo" into his ear.

Lucera waited patiently as James clutched his heart, gasping. When his ragged breaths seemed to become more and more even, Lucera sat down in the chair Allan had inhabited a few peaceful minutes ago.

"I read about your little loss-of-control moment onstage," Lucera said quietly, smiling at the newspaper lying haphazardly on the ground. "I also witnessed it first-hand."

"And why are you telling me this?" James inquired, almost sarcastically.

"Well, I also overheard your conversation with Allan a few moments ago. The part about the microphone stand shivering."

James snickered. "Why, do you believe me?"

"Yes."

"...What?"

"Hm," Lucera hummed, leaning back and crossing her legs, looking pleased that she had the mighty-and-famous James Aareson gaping stupidly at her. "It looks like I'll have to start from the very beginning."

"The beginning of what?"

"The beginning," Lucera replied simply.

James looked ready to tear out his hair.

"You see, I have a sister who studies the occult--mainly, animism. Actually, she only believes a certain slice of animism. Animism is the belief that all objects, both animate and inanimate, temporarily or permanently have some sort of spirit or soul inhabiting it. My sister believes that inanimate objects can only be temporarily inhabited by a soul or spirit, and that not all inanimate objects are lucky enough to be inhabited. She also believes that, when it chooses to, a soul or spirit in an inanimate object may separate from its host and wander."

James was leaning in, reluctantly interested. "I think I know what you're trying to say, but I can't be sure."

"What I'm saying," Lucera said with an I-know-I've-got-you-befuddled air, "is that I believe your microphone stand is the host of some sort of soul or spirit. It could be a human's soul, or animal's soul, or a spirit that never once inhabited a living body."

James nodded, not sure what to say. "Uh...so, if a soul left an animate object, would it have memory of its time in that host?"

"I think it would, though I'm not sure," Lucera said seriously. "Neither my sister nor I have ever actually encountered a disembodied soul or a spirit. None of my sister's books say anything about the memory of a soul."

"Is there any way I could meet your sister and talk?"

"I was going to suggest that you meet her," Lucera said, smiling, and pulled out a pencil and a scrap of white paper from the pockets of her slick purple vest. "Here is her name and phone number," She said, scribbling something down, and handed the piece of paper to James. Before James could ask anything else, she stood up. "Good luck," She said, smiling faintly, and disappeared into the shadows of the stage.

James looked down into the piece of paper for a moment, and slipped it into his pocket. He patted his pocket good-naturedly, muttered "right" to himself, and left to find and placate Allan.

* * *

**A/N: **Soo...I now that this chapter was a little uneventful, but the next one should be okay. I'm sorry it's taking so long to update; I have the Static Shock story that I'm working on, and I just came back from a vacation to the beach that made me 100% lazier than I was before. :/

Review please!!

--Sanded Silk--


End file.
